


Lionheart

by GreywindsRising (SourPuss)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F, they're lesbians harold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 00:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17233847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourPuss/pseuds/GreywindsRising
Summary: She traced her fingers wistfully along the petals of her garland, feeling the white petals curl delicately under her touch, and once more wished to slip away to another world. A world where women like Cersei Lannister had space to be.A Secret Santa present for lesbiancerseilannister! This is really just a very self-indulgent canon alteration, in which someone finally gives Cersei Lannister a sword!





	Lionheart

Across the Riverlands, the plains glowed emerald and diamond as daylight shined on the fields, as though as far as the eye could see the world had been spun into a vivid tapestry. Pools of golden light spilt over the seams of the red and blue marquees, swaying with the movements of the preparing knights and desperately fumbling squires. Gowns swished through the crowds to reach the wooden benches, ladies treading over the scarlet cloth lining the grounds, those who were accompanied by their husbands listening with counterfeit interest as the day's activities were explained to them for the fourth time that morning.

Catelyn was a vision in navy, the woollen fabric wrapped across her shoulders to reveal a slim yet deep neckline tied by two silver trout brooches. Her red hair cascaded across her shoulders and danced across her back as she walked up to the highest seat, the colours washing together like a sunset spilling out onto the sea. Lords and ladies alike stood mesmerised, but Catelyn paid no notice to their compliments as she anxiously tugged at her fingers and did all she could to maintain her composure. The night before she had gone to bed a girl of eighteen years, and awoke to find herself a woman, stripped of the refuge of childhood. Her seat overlooked the tournament, nestled between the redwood throne of her father, engraved with waves that tore through the wood and trouts swimming up and down the legs, and the cushioned chair of her betrothed, draped with a grey woollen blanket. Brandon was already at his seat and met her with an appreciative smirk. It was a lady’s duty to please her husband, and although she had not yet learned how to love Brandon, she was pretty and agreeable and willing to bear any slight against her for the father’s sake- as the eldest daughter, she could not afford the luxury of spirit or passion.

A hush fell over the crowd as the riders finally began to emerge. It was the third and final day of the tourney, which was by no means a modest feat, an uncharacteristic display of excess for House Tully intended to distinguish Catelyn from the many other (and in Hoster’s eyes, unremarkable) ladies of Westeros, and hopefully entice offers for the hands of his two youngest children. The first day had featured axe throwing and archery for the squires and noble boys, their fathers and knights jokingly betting on their champions- Brandon had been unable to resist the opportunity to boast his archery prowess, but his younger brother, Eddard, had appeared to have coaxed him out of participating in the activities of the following days. Seemingly in compromise, Brandon had spent the following day roaring throughout the melee, pounding his fists against his wooden chair and rousing cries of ‘Winterfell!’ from the Northern competitors. As the first few hedge knights began to ride, Catelyn turned to him, taking in his thicket of dark hair and slim lips, lips that seemed to flicker between a perpetual smirk or frown. She thought of their sons, how they would be strong and brave and so handsome talk of their valour would reach the gates of Kings Landing, she thought of her and her son worlds away in Winterfell. An explosion of cheers thrust Catelyn back into reality.

The crowd was bathed in gold as the Lion of Lannister rode into the field, yet beside her Brandon sat as cold as ice. His jaw was locked in the wild fury she had come to recognise so attentively; it was never directed towards her, but his barely suppressed aggression was nearly always peripheral. Brandon Stark was a man made for wooing chambermaids and his hunting partners alike- he had no concern for ruling and even less for his betrothed, although Catelyn had wondered if this in itself was a pittance from the gods. It was surely better than loving him, only to find him in the lap of whichever serving girl had caught his fancy. In truth she was not unhappy with her betrothed, he was handsome and young and although she would miss Riverrun dearly, she knew her match was to be the most valuable- even Tywin Lannister had considered her for an in-law before Jaime had been appointed to the Kingsguard. Unsurprisingly, Jaime had dominated the melee and seemed the obvious choice for today’s victor (although Brandon had assured Catelyn that the Lannisters would not have been so smug if he was jousting, not that Catelyn was entirely convinced).

Although there was no way of telling, Catelyn could not help but feel as though something had changed in the young man’s demeanour. He was famous across Westeros for his jousting prowess- and not without good reason- yet he had made faltered several times in his riding, they were only small errors of course, never significant enough to cost him the joust, but enough to make Brandon rekindle his hopes of seeing the gem of House Lannister unhorsed. It intrigued her, whatever weakness there could be in a man so widely regarded as infallible, it almost felt as though she had for a moment seen through his armour and unravelled him. More than anything, she was grateful to know that she was not the only one falling short of their duty.

***

The crowd roared in excitement as the final rider fell from his seat, his horse beginning to trot away as the knight attempted to conceal his embarrassment. Jaime Lannister towered above him, and as the world was engulfed in deafening praise for the golden lion, it seemed as though he stood above them all, enthroned atop of his white mare. He was all confidence now, he had neither sense nor humility to play the young man overcome by shocked gratitude, instead, he rode to Hoster Tully with such bravado that it seemed foolish to have ever considered any of the riders his competitors. With one golden hand firmly holding onto his reigns, he swept the crown of white roses from Hoster’s hands and rode back to face the crowd; kicking splinters and dust into Brandon’s lap. If his intention had been to rile Brandon into a near inconsolable fury he had succeeded just as masterfully as he had won the jousts, and although he had not once raised his visor during the final day's competition, Catelyn could picture his smugness as clear as day.

The young man rode across the length of the benches, drawing the bystanders into a frenzy every time he leaned towards a young lady, slowing his mount down until the tension was unbearable, before galloping off towards the other end. Truthfully, Catelyn found his chauvinism unbearable, he appeared to her a foolhardy boy, drunk on sunlight and glory. Of course, she had been a girl once, dreaming of knights and romance and being courted by the most magnificent man to ever exist, but she had grown to resent the hedonism afforded to handsome young lords. Her girlhood had been a procession of courtesies and curtsies, by her tenth name day she knew of every lord in the Riverlands, and in return, every lord in the Riverlands knew her as though she was one of their own.

Catelyn had barely registered the cries and heckles of the crowd when she found Jaime Lannister stood before her, his armour clinking solemnly as he made his way towards her. She hated him; every fibre of her being wished he would drop dead, that his armour would become wildfire and engulf him, for she knew the moment the white petals melded with her auburn hair she would become complicit in her own ruining. If the whole world dissolved and she was left to spend the rest of eternity in darkness she would have been grateful, she pushed herself against her chair, convinced that at some point she would slip backwards and fall into another world entirely. For a moment she thought it had worked. She choked on her breath as she felt the leaves of the laurel scratch against her scalp, she couldn’t bear to turn to her father, nor her betrothed, whose knuckles were turning white in fury. It was when Jaime knelt before her that Brandon finally succumbed to his rage.

“What right have you, ser,” he roared, his movements containing such a barely concealed wrath that he almost appeared brittle, “what right have you to crown this woman on the eve of her engagement?”

Jaime rose to his feet in silence, neither intimidated nor excited by the other’s aggression.

“Do you take me for a fool? Do I look green to you, Lannister?” Brandon tore past his squires until he stood mere steps away from Jaime, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. There was such intensity to his furore that it seemed as though the whole world had ceased to exist, the young lord’s rage was so consuming that it seemed as though nothing else could be permitted to exist. “Draw your weapon and fight me like a man, or leave in dishonour! If you turn away now, Lannister, you might just have your cowardice to thank for your life.”

Brandon’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, and Catelyn could not help but feel as though he was excited. He was not a man who could be denied anything, certainly not an opportunity to best another he so blatantly considered to be his inferior- the slight upon his betrothed was merely the vessel to which he found himself able to fulfil his desire of dominating the tourney. From across the benches, Catelyn could see Brandon’s brother, Eddard, watching, his brow hanging heavy over his stone grey eyes, with a look of hopeless disapproval that so often accompanied his brother’s actions. His gaze shifted to Catelyn, and seemed to exist somewhere that was not quite sympathetic, but certainly not accusatory; his gaze did not hold her complicit, but instead a helpless bystander to the chauvinism that so often enchanted young men.

“Well then, I must beg of you to sheath your sword,” a voice ran through the field, as rippling and indulgent as warm velvet, “for I think it is beyond my ability to fight like a man, my lord.” With his body bent over in a bow, he pulled his helmet off and cast it to the ground. “My dear brother needed his rest after such an arduous day’s melee, and surely we can both agree that Lady Catelyn is the finest maid all of Westeros?”

Cersei Lannister’s hair had been braided closely to her scalp, the style was odd and like nothing Catelyn had ever seen before, she looked handsome and wild and as she stood across from Brandon, nestled in gold plate and bathed in fear and adoration, Catelyn could not help but feel as though she had never truly seen a woman before she had seen Cersei. Her cheeks were a deep red, and now Catelyn could see that she was breathing heavily, struggling to hold her shoulders up from the weight of the armour. Yet there was a ferocity in her eyes and her smile, it was different to the arrogance of Jaime, or the vacant amusement of Tyrion; she was a lioness and feared nothing other than what she knew herself to be capable of.

In her admiration, Catelyn had lost all focus on her betrothed, who, much to her shock, seemed rather pleased by the unmasking. With a bellowing laugh, he took hold of her gauntleted hand and thrust it to the sky. For him, Jaime Lannister had been a threat to his masculinity, a contender to subjugate, but Cersei Lannister was no slight upon his honour, nor his ego, for she had no space to exist in his world. She could inhabit her brother’s armour for a while, and pass through the world as his shadow, but she could never stay, nor make a home in the gilded metal- although Brandon could not fault her for trying. The crowd stood in applause, hooting and cheering, some even tossing coins into the field as the sky rained gold, glimmering over Cersei’s armour. Catelyn could not bring herself to cheer alongside her; she knew that before her had taken place the almost imperceptible shift from daring knight to the court jester, they had to make her small, or else risk being utterly deposed. She traced her fingers wistfully along the petals of her garland, feeling the white petals curl delicately under her touch, and once more wished to slip away to another world. A world where women like Cersei Lannister had space to be.

***

There is an unspoken rule in Westeros regarding when it is appropriate for a lady to leave a feast; typically, she is to have the courtesy to excuse the first few gropes of her husband, towards her or any other pretty young woman in the vicinity, but as the wine pours and men tend towards indiscretion, it is expected of her to excuse herself. By the second course, Brandon had come to the realisation that as beautiful as Catelyn’s gown had been, she had no intention of letting her betrothed appreciate what lay underneath, and had dutifully turned his attention to the serving girls. By the time that Edmure had staggered over to Jaime Lannister, the real Jaime Lannister, who despite being noticeably appalled by his general company had managed to find refuge amongst his cousins from Lannisport, Catelyn had gathered up her skirts and weaved through the seemingly endless torrent of guests.

Her heels sunk against the carpets lining the tourney, and as she tiptoed towards the bank of the river the silk of her shoes grew heavy with the grass’ evening dew. Willow trees were dotted along the bank, their branches swaying and kissing the water’s surface in the gentle breeze, Catelyn pushed her way through the dense drooping branches and ran her fingers along the tree trunk, remembering how she and Lysa would hide beneath the branches and pretend to be princesses of a faraway land. The memory was irretrievable, and that made it sweet- nothing, not her betrothed, nor her duty, nor the frozen halls of Winterfell could take those memories away from her.

With some struggle, Catelyn managed to unlace the back of her bodice, her corset, and slip out of her petticoat, gathering the garments up and hanging them over one of the tree’s branches. Grass and marigolds flattened underneath her feet as she made her way to the river bank, behind her lay her shoes by the willow’s roots, caked in mud and wet greenery. Her linen shift felt heavy against her skin, although the sun now crowned the horizon, it was scarcely cooler than it had been during the jousting and she longed for the simplicity of running water. She pulled the wreath from her hair, now tangled within her auburn locks, and began to pull the petals from the crown, casting them into the rushing current. It was less a destruction than it was a restoration, in her mind at least, her intentions were not of iconoclasm but to return the petals to another woman; a girl, a queen, a peasant, a spinster, she did not care whom the Gods chose to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty, only that it did not have to be her.

“I hope you are not unhappy, Lady Tully,” Catelyn jolted, it was the same velvety voice that had first bewitched her at the tourney, seeming to drift to her the same way the petals fluttered across the water “perhaps you would have preferred it to be Jaime who had rode for you, he has that effect on most ladies.”

“No-o, no not at all,” her voice had the quality of an uncertain child, she did not understand Cersei Lannister, she did not understand her smiles or her bravery or her insistence to make Catelyn doubt all facets of womanhood that she had before deemed unquestionable. She stood only a few feet behind her, underneath the willow branches the crimson of her gown appeared plum, yet the last few traces of sunlight caught hold of the gold embroidery around her shoulders, as though she were aflame. “I have once before made your brother’s acquaintance, I should be honoured to have the attention of the tourney’s finest rider- if you forgive my current state of dress. I was not expecting company.”

“Oh please,” she batted her hand, “I am no septa, and I am certain you are as sick as I am of polite society.” There was a hint of suggestion in Cersei Lannister’s voice, the kind that made her flush and chest fill with warmth, as though she had swallowed a mouthful of wine. Her thoughts were clouded and all she could think of was the unbearable loveliness of the woman stood ahead of her, how she longed to draw her fingertips along the broadness of Cersei Lannister’s shoulders, to know how it felt to be touched by a woman with no pretences.

Catelyn’s words caught in her throat; she was tired of conversation and trying to understand what Cersei wanted from her, she did not have the courage to ask nor the cockiness to assume. “Come, sit by the water,” she patted the ground beside her, scarcely looking into the other woman’s eyes, “after days like this- when I can scarcely think- I like to sit here and think.”

“What do you think of, Lady Tully?” Cersei smirked as she turned her back to Catelyn, beginning to unlace the back of her dress. Her eyes were wicked, a brilliant emerald that seemed to burn and flicker as she held her gaze. Some had said Catelyn’s eyes were blue like the endless streams of Riverrun, and Brandon’s grey like the eternal stone of Winterfell, yet Cersei Lannister’s eyes were beyond the natural world, they existed in the realm of dragons and fairies and summers without end.

“The same as most young ladies, I imagine,” perhaps there was something about the evening, a certain alchemy in the air, but she felt rebellious, she felt as though she could tell Cersei anything, say what she truly wanted to.

“Please, enlighten me.” 

“My betrothed, the children we will have, sewing pretty dresses, and lemon cakes. That is all it seems a lady is to think of.”

With a chuckle, Cersei hung her gown beside Catelyn’s, kicking her shoes from her feet as she made her way towards the bank. There was something comforting about Cersei’s height, it made Catelyn feel as though she did not need to shrink away- Catelyn had often felt like she was inhabiting borrowed space, that her body demanded too much. Cersei was scarcely shorter than her brother, and when they stood together it seemed impossible to tell which twin had taken after the other. It had been said they both famously resembled their mother, Joanna, with her full lips and golden locks, although from what she had seen of Tywin, she believed they shared a strong resemblance, even if only for their shared pride in being a Lannister.

The stream was cast in an ethereal light, with reflections of marigolds glimmering across the water like flecks of amber. Far into the distance, they could hear the grand hall, bursting with music and jeers, occasionally they would hear the giggles of a pair of young lovers sneaking away into a world of their own. 

“Why did you come here?” Catelyn did not think before the words came spilling out of her mouth, it was desperate and it was hopeful, and above everything it was uncontrollable. 

“For you,” her fingers slid over Catelyn’s hand, although her skin was cool to the touch in the waning sunlight, Catelyn melted under her, “when I saw you on the first day of the tourney, something changed. It was like opening my eyes for the first time. I wanted, just for a moment, to be the knight in the songs and steal you away- all those brutes, those thick headed boys so attracted to the sight of themselves in armour, they were not worthy of you. I knew I could do everything they could, perhaps they were stronger, but I refused to lose to them. Lady Tully, Catelyn, I have wanted you from the moment I saw you, and I was hoping,” her free hand gently stroked Catelyn’s knee, her voice deep and breathy, “that you could oblige me.” 

The world stilled and all Catelyn could feel was need, she felt as though the world was dissolving around her and all that would remain would be Cersei. She held her Cersei’s cheeks as though she was holding on to life itself, it was through her touch that she realised how starved she had been, that her whole life could be devastated or consoled by her affection. She paused, her lips almost brushing against Cersei’s, and felt the warmth of her breath against her skin. Cersei’s hand slid from Catelyn’s knee to the back of her thigh, beckoning her the straddle her, closing the distance between their lips. Catelyn kissed her deeply, pushing herself against her further and further until she felt as though she could be whole, as though she could close the aching chasm of desire inside of her and find herself reborn in the holy fire of her eyes. Desperately, Catelyn wrapped her arm around Cersei’s back, pulling her in closer to the embrace until she could scarcely breathe, their hearts pounding against their rib cages, and the other’s breath filling their lungs. Her breath quickened as Cersei’s fingertips traced up her thigh, as gentle as a whisper, as her other hand weaved under her slip and caressed her navel. Catelyn begged Cersei to take her, planting kisses along her jaw and running her hands along her body tenderly, tracing her nails along her back so sweetly her lover wrapped her arms around her and lay her on a bed of grass.

As the evening sky unfolded into endless darkness and the great hall finally grew quiet of merriment, the pair lay spent beside one another. Their fathers and their lovers and their houses crumbled away with one another’s touch, and Catelyn knew with a heavy heart that no song would ever be quite so sweet as Cersei coming undone before her.


End file.
